


Learning

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: smallfandomfest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-03 01:18:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2832914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How <i>did</i> Matt get on the FBI's list, anyway?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Learning

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's smallfandomfest for the prompt "how _did_ Matt get on the FBI's list, anyway?"
> 
> * * *

John looks up from the TV when Matt rushes into the room, all flailing arms and flying hair. Used to be that nobody did more than amble around this place. Sometimes stroll. Occasionally there might have been a saunter, if John was feeling particularly energetic that day.

Since Matt moved in, more often than not there are mad dashes from room to room, thumping feet taking the stairs two at a time, and more whirling and floundering than you can shake a stick at. At first it annoyed John, all the noise and clatter. Now it amuses him, and makes the times when he can snag an arm around Matt's waist and draw him in and use his mouth and his hands and his tongue to make the kid go boneless and pliant in his arms all the more precious.

He watches with a smirk now while Matt pats frantically at the pockets of his jeans before digging through the pile of newspapers on the side table. John quirks a brow. "Lose something?"

Matt glances up, shakes back the straggling hair out of his eyes. "Flash drive?" he says skeptically. He holds up his fingers several inches apart. "It's a little—"

"I know what it is, Matt," John interrupts. Jesus, they've been living together for six months. John now knows more about flash drives, hard drives, and switch drives than most of the IT punks at the station. He flicks a finger toward the coffee table. "On top of the comic books."

"Graphic novels," Matt corrects automatically, but he flashes John a quick smile before loping – yup, John thinks, no casual strolls for this kid – across the room and scooping it up. He stands for a moment, brow furrowed, and John watches as his quick fingers once again pat at his pockets.

"Keys are on the hook," John says patiently.

"Right! The hook," Matt says. He glances down the hall before turning back to John with a shrug. "I know, I know. You'd think that someone like me would be more organized. But hey, there's just so much going on up here," Matt twirls a frenetic finger around his temple, "that all the little stuff just… gets lost. And the key hook by the door is new, so you can't blame me for forgetting that one."

"Uh huh," John says. "We've had it for four months."

"We have?"

"Ever since you lost your keys," John says. "The third time," he adds pointedly when it looks like Matt is going to argue the point.

"Oh."

"Yeah," John says. He snags his beer and flicks his gaze back to the TV when Matt bends to pick up his backpack, then scowls at the newsfeed. "Hey, don't take the George. Looks like there's some kinda tractor trailer overturned, traffic's backed up for miles."

"Yeah?" Matt asks. He stops to scan the television and John watches him cock his head, brow furrowed as he watches the two anchors bicker back and forth. "This is sports, John. Granted, most of it sounds like a foreign language to me but that dude that looks like a Ken doll? He definitely said something about a 'line drive' and even I know that's… something to do with baseball. In some fashion."

Flash drives and line drives, John thinks. They're both learning. But he says only, "The thing about the bridge came on the feed."

"The news scroll? At the bottom of the screen?" Matt snorts. "Yeah, like you can trust those."

"They get that info directly from the wire—"

"Orrrrr from any kid with above average intelligence and too much time on his hands."

John sits up a little straighter in the chair, narrows his eyes. "What?"

"Nothing," Matt says quickly. But he can't hide his guilty look – kid's got the least effective poker face on the planet – as he bends to grab his bag again, slings it over his shoulder and starts backing toward the door. "Okay, so Jamie and I are just gonna play some…" He shakes his head. "You don't care. It's a game, anyway, and he's making nachos so don't hold dinner for me. I'll be home by—"

"Stop," John says. He nods when Matt's fluttering backward momentum halts, sets his beer carefully on the side table before getting to his feet and looking Matt up and down. "That's how you got on the blacklist, isn't it? You fucked with a newsfeed?"

For a moment he thinks the kid is going to deny it, make up some story about a vast conspiracy within the FCC. But then his chin comes up even as his shoulders slump.

"I was fourteen, okay? It was just a joke! How could I know that people would actually _believe_ that zombies were rampaging down 5th Avenue?"

"THAT was you? Jesus, kid!" John swipes a hand over his head. He still remembers the frantic calls coming in to 911, the extra patrols sent out into the streets, the looting and mass panic spread over dozens of city blocks. He was with Johansen when the call came in about the old guy slumped over his garden gate; by the time paramedics got to him the heart attack had already taken him. "Jesus," he says again. "Someone died, Matt."

"I know," Matt says quietly. His shakes his head, the bag sliding unheeded to his feet. "It was a joke. I was super into Resident Evil back then and I just thought it would be… funny, you know? And cool. I thought I'd be like Orson Welles. Send people panicking into the streets over a Martian invasion, except in this case it would be the undead shambling around, ready to eat your brains. Ooo eeee oooh," he intones. "And then when people realized it was a hoax I'd be celebrated as the brilliant mind who fooled an entire city. The ultimate prankster."

"Matt—"

"I was fourteen, John."

"Yeah," John says. He lets out a breath, releases the tension that's been keeping his shoulders back and his spine straight. Realizes he's been looming over the damn kid like one of those monsters from his video games, and though Matt doesn't cower like his little animated avatar – even though he knows Matt knows that he has nothing to fear from him, ever – he still has no right to try to make the kid feel small. Weak. He shakes his head, crosses the distance between them to lay his hands gently on Matt's shoulders, rubs the pads of his thumbs softly over his collarbone. "Yeah," he says again.

"I can't fix it," Matt says after a moment. His eyes bore into John's shirt, but John doesn't try to force him to lift his head, doesn't make the kid meet his gaze. "I can't bring Mr. Samuellsen back. But I set up a savings account for his grandkid, when I turned sixteen and some of the restrictions got lifted and I started earning my keep. I put money into it when I can, more now that I'm getting bigger contracts after all the firesale bullshit. I can't fix it, but I can still make sure that Danny… that his grandson can go to college or—"

"Tell me where the account is," John says. "I'll start adding to it too."

"Yeah?" Matt asks. He raises his eyes then, his own shoulders finally relaxing beneath John's hands. He lays his open palm lightly on John's chest, and his eyes narrow briefly. John doesn't know what he's assessing in that feather-light touch – despite all the learning they're both doing together, most of the things in the kid's supersmart brain are still beyond the ken of a fifty-something old-school cop – but whatever it is, he must pass the test because Matt eases closer and rests his cheek next to his palm. "Thanks, John."

"Sure, kid," he says. He cards his fingers through Matt's soft hair, feels Matt's palm fist in his T-shirt before he pulls away.

"Think maybe I won't go hang out at Jamie's after all," Matt says.

"Okay," John says. He steps back when Matt lets go of him, but reaches out to snag at his wrist when it looks like the kid is going to slink away down the hall, where he'll likely burrow down in his office with headphones blaring incomprehensible music into his ears. It's the Matt Farrell solution to avoiding a discussion, and since John's usually equally eager to avoid most of the difficult talks that come up in their new relationship it's always been successful in the past. But he's not quite ready to let go of Matt just yet. Not this time.

When Matt glances down at his hand he releases his grip, but stands his ground. "You're not the only one who made some bad choices in his youth," John says steadily.

Matt scoffs. "You? I find it hard to believe that John McClane—"

"Believe," John says. "I got a couple stories to tell ya. Maybe while we make dinner?"

Matt looks down the hall, but finally nods and manages a wan smile. "Dinner would be good. Nachos?"

"Sure thing," John says. He turns his back and heads toward the kitchen, trusts that Matt will follow. "Grab my beer, will ya?" he calls back over his shoulder. "I'll show ya a little twist in the nacho department."

"Beer nachos?" Matt says faintly. "That sounds… disgusting. And intriguing. But mostly horribly gross."

John smiles to himself when he hears Matt practically galloping across the room to fetch his open can of Bud, heartened to know that at least one thing he's learned about the kid hasn't changed. There is never any casual strolling for Matt Farrell. 

But they've both still got a lot to learn about each other. Good thing they have a lifetime to do it.


End file.
